


Only This Moment

by archestofenemies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Anal Sex, Food, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Poetry, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archestofenemies/pseuds/archestofenemies
Summary: France/England: Victorian gentleman Arthur winds up in the company of the handsome farmer Francis. Will he be able to keep from throwing himself into those muscular, sun-bronzed arms? No. De-anon from the kink meme, finished.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

As soon as he arrived at the port, Francis greeted him with a florid bow and a kiss on a gloved hand, and Arthur responded by poking him hard in the gut with his cane.

"None of your nonsense, please. The sooner we arrive at your place, the better," Arthur growled, sweeping past the crumpled figure. At this, Francis looked up, grinning widely despite the pain.

"Are you so eager to renew the bonds of _l'amour_ we share?" he asked, picking up a suitcase and trailing after the other man.

"Of course not! How absurd. I merely wish to get this over with and return to London as soon as possible."

"And who is to say that consummating your thickly veiled desire for me would not bring about your prompt recovery?"

"You refer to my thickly veiled desire to punch you until I feel better?" Arthur retorted nastily. It still rankled, being forced to tolerate Francis' presence at the queen's behest, but they had been convinced a week's worth of rest in France would do him some good, and he finally ran out of arguments. No matter, now Arthur had the opportunity to resume fighting with Francis on his own soil, and that thought cheered him up greatly.

He was so caught up in fantasies of beating Francis into a bloody pulp, he allowed the other nation to help him into the carriage and thus did not notice they were not heading to Paris at all.

"Francis…" Arthur muttered warningly. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

"Oh, you have finally noticed, after four hours?" Francis laughed and avoided another jab from Arthur's cane, quite agilely, considering the confined space. "Please, I ask that you trust me on this, _mon chou_."

"Trust you? Don't be ridiculous. Now answer my question."

"To Lyons, in Rhône-Alpes." Francis waited for the appropriate awed gasp, but was disappointed, as usual.

"I suppose it would be foolish of me to ask why?"

"As beautiful as the city of lights may be - and Paris is indeed always stunning, you must admit - I think you would benefit most from time in the countryside."

With a superhuman display of self-restraint, Arthur willed himself to not roll his eyes. Just as he had gotten used to the idea of luxuriating in the comforts of civilization after an uncomfortable journey across the channel, he was now being taken to some backwards location in…

"Where in Lyons?" he finally asked.

"To my private chateau, dearest Arthur," Francis murmured, his voice dulcet with a familiar undercurrent of self-love that so distinguished the French people. "Even someone as tasteless as you will be impressed with its stately quiet elegance, the whimsical charm of the surrounding land, the endless richness—"

"Oh shut it." Sighing, Arthur debated between taking a nap and watching Francis' every move with cane at the ready, and settled on staying awake and defending his virtue even in the unlikely setting of a moving coach with a driver right outside.

Eventually bored of staring at a dozing Francis and memorizing every flaw in the wavy blond hair and long eyelashes and sensuous mouth and stylishly knotted cravat (so as to compose future insults, of course), Arthur spent the rest of the time gazing out at the rolling forested hills and golden farmland and orchards. The land prospered and shimmered in the late afternoon sun, pungent with the smell of green growing things that were noticeably absent in his grey and dreary London.

Not so long ago, Arthur had mocked Francis for being so technologically backward, still firmly ensconced in an agrarian state of mind, but it made sense that someone like him would reject the iron and brick and smoke that the other nations embraced in their bid for industrialization. Francis had considered modernization ugly and certainly not very sensual, and moreover, the working class in France would use it, had used it, as an excuse to strike and start a revolution or two.

But Arthur was willing to suffer a bit of smog in the lungs, a few factories in his towns, considering such marks of technology worth holding over Francis, what with his lush French valleys and fertile soil and happy cows and etcetera…

* * *

When Arthur next woke, he was surprised to find that he still had all his clothes on for one thing, and that they had arrived at their destination for another. It was nearly midnight, and even after their earlier stop for a meal at a fulsomely quaint inn, his bones ached terribly with the jouncing of the carriage. Grumbling to himself, Arthur stepped out of the coach and took his luggage from the driver with a curt merci.

"Here we are, Arthur. Is it not magnificent?" Francis announced, grabbing his arm and gesturing towards the house with the free hand.

It was not the grandly elaborate abode Arthur had been expecting, a two-story manor home that bespoke of a wealthy farmer more than vacationing aristocracy. If he were any less tired, he would point this out to Francis, but as it stood, he was practically falling into the other man's arms. Which was probably what that pervert wanted.

The driver of the coach watched them enter the chateau, shaking his head as he snapped the reins, long accustomed to transporting the British nobles around on the first leg of the Grand Tour. At least this one did not have a wife who would eventually ask why her husband and his French acquaintance had not returned from their outing.

Somehow, Arthur had enough fight left in him to force Francis out of the guestroom, and Francis retired to his own room alone after groping his victim only once. Fortunately, the servants had left the sleeping quarters in excellent condition, and he exchanged his travel-stained clothes for a fresh nightshirt, curling under the crisp sheets with a contented sigh. Tomorrow would be a long day, but it would be thoroughly enjoyable with Arthur around, and with that thought on his mind, Francis fell asleep.

* * *

Finally surrendering to the summons of the waking world, Arthur noticed his aches had melted away in the night, to be replaced with a wonderfully warm sense of coziness despite the decidedly non-English surroundings. For a few minutes, he simply lingered in bed, watching dust motes dance in the rays of light slanting across the white-washed room, filling his damaged lungs with clean warm air. The mouth-watering aroma of baking bread eventually wafted up, mingling with the scent of the roses trailing outside his window, and Arthur made his way down to the kitchen at the urgent request of his empty stomach.

" _Bonjour_ , Arthur!" Francis paused in the midst of inexplicable food-preparing activities and smiled at him so brightly Arthur nearly smiled back before remembering to scowl.

"Good morning, Francis. I see that I did not sleep-walk and throttle you in the night." Arthur sat down at the table at the other's invitation and eyed the humble spread warily. There was a significant lack of bacon and eggs and ham and fried greasy things, but he knew if he asked about it, Francis would only stare pointedly at his admittedly none-too-lean British stomach.

"Did you sleep well?" Francis asked, sounding unusually diffident.

"It was… restful," Arthur sniffed, implying that it could have been better if everything weren't so French.

"I expected nothing less," he replied smoothly, setting the bread and butter in the middle of the table and taking a seat. "Look, I even made tea for you."

"Err… thank you." He knew Francis made it a point to drink coffee whenever convenient, so this was a grand concession. After adding in sugar and cream, Arthur took a deep breath of the mellow flowery scent and sipped at the tea. "Not too bad."

"That is high praise coming from you." Francis continued smiling as he buttered a slice of baguette and topped it with a spoonful of strawberry jam. Suddenly blushing, the other nation grumbled and set his cup down, occupying himself with the business of eating for the moment.

"Ahem. Well… What are we doing today?" Arthur asked, increasingly aware of how early Francis must have woken in order to prepare breakfast and feeling guilty for lolling in bed all morning.

"I will be tending to the farm. I have no idea what _you_ ought to be doing," Francis replied, obviously reluctant to have Arthur touch any of the food crops and livestock with his cursed hands.

"This really is a farm, then?" Arthur snorted. "And you tease me for having a garden."

"Your little fairy gardens do not provide food for most of Europe, so there is no comparison, none at all," Francis replied, reigning in his indignation with a great effort. "But never mind that. I must attend to a few chores, and after lunch, we can take a tour of the grounds. Does that suit you, Arthur?"

"It seems that I have no choice." They finished the rest of the breakfast in silence.

* * *

Arthur had considered going back to bed while Francis puttered about with his chores, but the weather looked too inviting, and he decided to venture outside instead. He had just stepped out of the backdoor, a pen and notebook in hand, when he encountered a very large white dog watching him intently a short distance away. The dog trotted over with a warning growl as soon as he dared take a step, and Arthur was forced to remain still while it sniffed his shirt sleeve. At last the dog seemed to conclude he was harmless, and it stalked off to the pasture, casting one last disdainful glance in Arthur's direction.

Exhaling in relief, Arthur looked around for Francis, worried that the dog might decide he was dangerous after all and tear out his throat just for being English.

"There you are!" Francis called out, emerging from the depths of a shed. "I see you have met Garen, is he not the sweetest?"

"He certainly takes his job seriously, he looked ready to maul me."

"They are darling creatures, so brave and loyal," Francis sighed, and Arthur finally looked at him and what he was wearing, and had to snort to cover his laughter.

"Eh? What is so funny?"

"I just never see you like this. Wearing that." He made a motion, obviously referring to the wide-brimmed straw hat Francis was wearing.

"It is the working class garb, I think I wear it well. Don't you agree?" Francis asked, turning around so Arthur could get a full view of the mud splatters on his trousers and wooden sabots, as if he were modeling a coat sewn of brocade instead of an unbleached linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Arthur shook his head, secretly amused that Francis, who fancied wearing the prettiest silks and velvets and jewels, who took immense pride in setting the fashion trends for the rest of Europe, still managed to look perfectly comfortable dressed as a humble farmer.

"Frankly, I think you look ridiculous."

"Oh, I know you love it."

* * *

Declining Francis' invitation to join him on his rounds (from a safe distance, naturally), Arthur opted to sit under a pear tree, where he could watch the other nation toss feed to the chickens, cooing and clucking at them as if they were his children and not tomorrow's supper. It made him wonder about Francis's reasoning in naming a small farm creature as his national animal, instead of something nobler and fiercer, like a lion or eagle. The Gallic rooster wasn't even particularly pretty, with their beady eyes and their sharp beaks with which they liked to peck unsuspecting British gentlemen. Musing over this, Arthur jotted down the events of his journey thus far into his journal, with emphasis on Francis being an insufferable pervert, in case her royal majesty did not understand the depth of his aversion. So he spent the rest of the morning, occasionally looking up to track Francis' progress as he picked herbs or hauled in firewood or did whatever he needed to do, unaware of how many pages he had filled up describing every single thing that he hated about France until his pen ran out of ink.

"Lunch is ready, _mon petit cochon_!"

"Stop calling me by your ludicrous pet names," Arthur warned as he got to his feet, "or I shall admit to no knowledge of my fist suddenly hitting your face of its own volition."

"You have always been so clever with words, _mon doux agneau qui je veux embrasser_." Here Francis paused to catch a pen that had been flying straight for his eyes. "Ah, were you so inspired by my natural beauty that you composed a sonnet in admiration?"

Arthur was tempted to beat him over the head with the journal, which certainly did not contain any complimentary couplets about Francis, thank you very much, but mindful of his gentlemanly veneer, he deflated and said, "Let's just eat."

They sat down to the midday meal, more bread and butter, roasted vegetables, baked trout with a rich creamy sauce, sliced pears drizzled in syrup, served with wine and liberally seasoned with petty arguments about proper table manners that had already been resolved years ago once they discovered a common enemy in America and his atrocious excuse for etiquette.

Finally, France raised a hand in defeat. "As invigorating as I find our intercourse, by which I mean conversation, I really think you should save your breath for our walk, Arthur."

Uncurling his fingers from around the wineglass, Arthur let out a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes, that's a good idea. For once."


	2. Chapter 2

The tour was boring at best, but the idyllic stroll about the manor's extensive property gave Francis more time to observe his beloved enemy, without words to fill the air and cause further misunderstanding between them. He had been gravely concerned when Arthur first arrived at Calais, sallow and thin, his hair lank and eyes dull, his voice harsh and gravelly and not cute at all. Granted, the revitalized color in Arthur's cheeks came mostly from their bickering and once or twice when Francis patted him on the bum and he yelped in outrage, but it was a good, healthy color, which suited him. Arthur had even taken off his waistcoat in deference to the weather, down to his shirtsleeves, and while he looked a little breathless and sweaty, he did not look particularly upset. In fact, his gaze was wide and sun-dazzled, reflecting the deep gold and viridian of the land around him.

"Just a little further, Arthur," Francis assured him, "and we can rest for a while."

"I'm not tired," he replied automatically, even as he hurried to Francis' side with renewed energy.

They reached a small hill that overlooked the farm and the areas surrounding it, and Francis stopped and pointed to a house off in the distance.

"That is the home of the Broussards. They take care of the farm when I am away, and their girls help me shear the sheep. I was thinking… we could have dinner with them sometime."

Suspicious as ever, Arthur tried to determine if "shear the sheep" was a French euphemism for having carnal relations with someone, decided he would ask his brother later, then regretted contemplating Wales, sheep and carnal relations in the same thought, and finally ended with, "I would rather not."

Francis sighed and shook his head. "I do not know what to do with you. You complain about being stuck with me for a week, and when I offer to introduce you to a very lovely family, you refuse to meet them."

"Being around your people makes me nervous," Arthur mumbled defensively, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.

"And I don't?" Francis prodded, a smirk playing on his lips.

"…Not as much. At least, I've gotten used to you over the centuries."

"Ah, I think I know what the problem is," the other nation murmured in a thoughtful tone, belying the amusement sparkling in his eyes. "You are jealous of the Broussards, and you want me all to yourself. No, no, do not fret, _mon chaton_ , I understand perfectly the nature of your love for me, and I accept it-"

That was enough to cause Arthur to chase Francis all the way back to the chateau, cursing him at the top of his lungs.

* * *

Francis' dog came to his owner's rescue just as they reached the house, but fortunately for Arthur, the beast did not go for his jugular and instead attempted to drown him in canine saliva. As Francis pried Garen away, laughing all the while as if this were a humorous and not a life or death matter, Arthur freed himself and stumbled into the safety of the kitchen. He sat down at the table unceremoniously, catching his breath and letting his heart slow down from its exertion, waving away the other's offer of refreshment.

But that meant he now had nothing to do except watch his host, and although the idea was abhorrent, his treacherous eyes automatically fixed on Francis' profile as he splashed water on his face and arms, the way the tiny droplets glistened on the ends of his lashes and the wet, curled tendrils of his hair. It was all he could do to not stare in open jealousy as Francis glided about the kitchen preparing their supper, so handsome, even in plain clothing, so gracefully efficient, and so, so capable of cooking an edible meal the first time around without burning anything. Because that explained the gnawing ache in his stomach - jealousy, nothing more.

"I… Is there anything I can do to help?" Arthur asked at last, unable to sit idly for much longer, too used to the business of managing an empire, and desperately wanting something else to do besides watching his hated enemy chop vegetables as if it were the most sensual and pleasing act in the world.

Francis paused, glancing at him in surprise, and chuckled. "Oh Arthur, what have I been telling you? You are my guest, and as such, you do not need to be doing anything except enjoying yourself and recovering your health. Now promise you shall not offer to help me any further, for the sake of our stomachs, if nothing else." Francis flashed a brilliant smile over his shoulder while he set the large steaming pot into the oven to finish cooking. "But now that I think about it, perhaps I do require some assistance… upstairs… in my bed…"

"I will not help with _that_ , you lecher, you are on your own," Arthur hissed, pride still stinging from the (correct) insinuation that he could not cook.

"So you say now. The invitation stands, should you change your mind, _mon lapin_." Francis winked at him, apparently confident that Arthur will eventually agree to their making passionate love all through the night despite the current overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

Arthur sighed in exasperation, but all he said was, "If only you can see how deranged you look when you do that."

" _Oui_ , I may act a little crazy, but it is always for love," Francis proclaimed, and Arthur had to smile a little at the statement.

"Whatever you say."

"Well, I shall be back to finish dinner, but in the meantime, please make yourself at home, Arthur." A cheerful wave, and Francis disappeared out the door to resume his farmer duties.

* * *

Previously forbidden to touch anything related to food, which on a farm included almost everything, Arthur went upstairs to rest and possibly continue today's journal entry. While he could not quite call himself a literary genius, he received no small amount of satisfaction in the act of composition. And he had much to write about.

_It has been said love could drive a man mad. If that is so, then I know of no man who is more insane than Francis Bonnefoy. He loves_

The hand holding the pen hesitated, as if the fount of inspiration that had flowed so freely that morning had dried out, and the author could no longer express exactly what he wanted to say about his subject.

_He loves…_

There were a vast number of words he could have written down to finish the sentence, Francis being the type to never stint on affection, and yet somehow none of them fitted. Frustrated, Arthur got to his feet and strode over to the window, opening the shutters for some fresh air. Although he would swear he had not been intending to look for him, he soon found Francis kneeling in a small garden tucked against the side of the chateau, singing quietly to himself as he weeded around the tender plants.

Arthur allowed himself a smile at the incongruous sight. This clearly was not the famed gardens of Versailles, just a modest herb and vegetable patch, with wild roses trailing across the walls and wooden fence in untamed panoply of blossoms, lavender and lilies and sunflowers allowed to grow around the edges wherever they could. Nothing like the perfectly-trimmed gardens back in London, all stately planned architecture and dainty elfin havens. But the effect was nevertheless pleasing to the eye, considering… Well…

Leaning against the window frame, Arthur continued watching Francis at his work, the journal neglected for the time being in favor of something different, something he would not likely be able to see ever again. It was because Francis always gave the impression of having never done any work in his life, or at least not the type of work that did not involve use of a bedroom. Perhaps he might have judged his neighbor a little too harshly.

To his horror, Francis suddenly looked up and squinted in his direction from under the shade of his hat. Arthur stepped back, trying to look as if he was simply seeking inspiration from the surrounding countryside, but alas, Francis had already blown him a kiss. He slammed the window shut and spent the rest of the time fuming before Francis knocked on his door, telling him to come down for supper.

* * *

"And why will you not share your writing with me?" Francis asked, sounding so calm and logical, and Arthur's grip on his spoon tightened in annoyance. "I welcome you into my home, knowing that you would like nothing more than to cut my throat, I cook your meals, which you clearly do not appreciate, and I tolerate your sour disposition affecting my precious animals' well-being. Surely you can share a passage or two and delight my ears with your masterful prose?"

"They are only my personal reflections, and would mean nothing to someone as, as superficial as you," Arthur snapped. He had just managed to set up a mask of icy dignity during the evening meal, determined to not let Francis provoke him any further, but it seemed to be falling despite his best efforts. Seeing as they just started on the main course, it looked to be a long night.

"Please, dear, do not doubt my ability to understand the content of your bawdy English poems!"

"What? They most certainly are not bawdy! Do I look like one of your writers? I've never-"

"Of course not. Forgive me," Francis said, still grinning. "It was certainly not _you_ drunkenly singing "A Wizard's Staff Has a Knob on the End" at the top of your lungs the last time I was in London. It must have been someone else with hideous caterpillars for eyebrows and a low tolerance for his ale."

As it seemed that Arthur did not remember this incident, judging by his pole-axed look of horror, Francis decided to jog his neighbor's memory by humming a few bars of the tune, and it took all of Arthur's maturity to not fling a crust of bread at the other man's smug face. In his defense, he needed that bread to eat with the stew, it would be a waste to throw it at _him_. And so he ate, biting into the tender meat (roast beef, of course) and gulping down the seasoned potatoes, while Francis watched him with a pleased expression, chin resting in hand.

Basking in the silence, Francis could recall the long-ago day he had set a much tinier, much grubbier Arthur at a table and prepared him something halfway edible to eat. He had not been thanked then, and would not be appreciated now. But that did not matter, he loved showing off his cuisine, and there will always be at least one person who would try it, "just to make sure it's not as good as English cooking, mind you."

Once Arthur set his spoon and fork down, looking content even if he was not going to say it outright, Francis stood up to take his dishes out of the way. "Are you ready for dessert?" he asked, barely able to keep the excitement out of his voice. "I have a new recipe I am sure you would love."

"We shall see about that," Arthur replied primly, dabbing at his mouth with a white handkerchief and totally not seeing Francis bite his lip to keep from laughing. Frankly, he was too full to even think about dessert, but he could not turn Francis down, not when he looked so proud of his new recipe. Because Arthur was a gentleman, he would praise whatever it is, whether or not he liked it.

" _Et voila_!" Francis emerged from the kitchen triumphantly holding a plate of something cake-like that gave off a heavy scent of sugar and ripe fruit. When he set it down in front of Arthur, the dessert was revealed to be a dense cake filled with black cherries and dusted with powdered sugar. Despite the rather homely appearance, the moment Arthur bit into a forkful, his mouth was filled with a burst of intense tangy-sweet flavor, and he nearly missed hearing Francis very helpfully telling him that there were pits in the cherries.

After he spat out the pit into a napkin and checked it for any tooth fragments, Arthur turned to Francis, intending to give him a thorough tongue-lashing. But what came out instead was, "What do you call this?"

"It is clafoutis, from Limousin, very popular there," Francis replied, not caring if Arthur actually knew where there was. "Shall I assume that you liked it then?"

"Well…" Arthur paused. "I suppose it is a very good tactic if you ever want your enemies to end up toothless. No one would be able to resist biting into it, even knowing that cherries have pits."

He loves it, Francis thought, unable to keep from beaming in pride. Pulling up a chair, he sat down next to Arthur, who did not push him away or make a comment about needing his space. For a few moments, they stared deep into each other's eyes, lost in an indefinable emotion not even the great Shakespeare could fully capture in words, and gently, so gently, Francis brushed his fingers against the growing hot flush upon Arthur's (actually not) virgin cheeks.

"F-Francis…" he whispered, mouth uncomfortably dry, voice trembling from restrained passion.

"Yes?" the other returned in a barely audible murmur that would cause the female protagonist of aforementioned bawdy bar song to take off all her clothes at once.

"I, I think your dog is trying to eat my ankle."

"Ah. I knew I forgot something."

Without further comment, Francis slid out of the chair and retrieved his half-finished plate of beef stew to set it on the ground for Garen. His lower appendage released from the beast's hungry maw, Arthur returned to finishing the clafoutis, occasionally rolling his eyes heavenward at Francis and his exclamations of "Whosa good boy? You're a good boy!" or the French equivalents thereof. He was not jealous, of course, but as far as he could tell, the dog hardly deserved to be fawned over like a king. Francis was making too much commotion over an animal that was simply doing what it was trained to do, and that was that.

Refusing Francis' suggestion that he carry him up to "their bed," which patently did not exist, Arthur trudged upstairs to his room alone. He pushed his trunk in front of the door in case Francis tried something funny, and sat down at the desk with a sigh. Unfortunately, inspiration did not arrive on the wings of a muse, and Arthur aimlessly sketched on the blank pages as he waited for her, until he had finished a fairly passable depiction of the chateau, the surrounding farmland and pasture, with little cloud-like sheep grazing on the hill. As an afterthought, he drew a tiny Francis in the corner, in his farmer outfit, watching over the farm.

Smiling to himself, Arthur turned the page and wrote, "A frog in his natural habitat."


	3. Chapter 3

It was in the dead of the night when Francis suddenly opened his eyes, ears straining to hear a sound that did not want to be heard. Carefully, he slipped out of bed, pulling on a pair of trousers, and then made his way downstairs, silent as the shadow of a person who has centuries of experience escaping from someone's bedroom with the intention of not getting caught. There it was again, the soft wisp of a suspicious noise, and Francis regretted passing by Arthur's room without checking on him first. (Not that he would have been able to get in without making a ruckus, something he had discovered earlier that night much to his dismay.)

Golden light streaming from the kitchen guided him to the intruder's location. Wasting not a single moment, Francis strode into the room, holding up the gun he had picked up on the way there.

In the glow of the lantern, Arthur froze, green eyes wide with panic and more than a little fear.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Francis grumbled, lowering the rifle. "I could have shot you."

"Y-you could have shot me!" Arthur sputtered out at last, his reactions still catching up to the events of the previous few seconds.

" _Oui_ , we have established that fact already."

"Do you do this often? Threaten bodily harm upon your company?" The pitch of Arthur's voice verged on hysterical, and Francis tried to not smile.

"I am merely defending my home. If it were not for the fact that the animals had remained silent, I would have assumed there was a robber about, ready to ravish us in our beds."

Having collected his wits, Arthur replied scathingly, "You mean, ravished me before you got to? Hah, I can certainly see how that would bother you!"

"What were you doing in the kitchen at this time of night?" Francis asked, not commenting on the observation because it was more or less true.

"I… was thirsty," Arthur mumbled, eyes averted. He was.

"Here, let me get you something to drink." In the next few minutes, Francis had retrieved an excellent red wine from the cellar and poured them each a glass, figuring they both needed something to soothe their nerves. Arthur sipped at his drink gratefully, and Francis watched him in silence, no longer a terrifying wraith with a gun, but a sleepy-eyed figure missing the comfort of his bed.

"Ah, I notice you are not wearing any trousers, Arthur. Is this because…?"

"No, it is not because I _want_ to be ravished, you sexual deviant. This is proper nightwear for men, I'll have you know. Unlike you French who wear nothing to bed…" Arthur tried to not turn red, but he did anyway, and mentally cursed the wine for tasting good and Francis not wearing a shirt and the queen's advisors who told him to go to this wretched country - everything in the world that was surely conspiring against him. "And my room was hot."

"I am so sorry to hear that," Francis purred, as a very delightful thought occurred to him. "You could always open the window if you need to."

Arthur did not open the window for a reason, but he could not quite tell Francis this reason, not when he had that knowing smirk on his face. "Err, no, I think I will be fine now." Another moment of hesitation, and Arthur's pride bowed before the tenets of basic decency. "Please accept my apology for having alarmed you, that was unintentional."

Francis stood up as well, still smiling. "Next time, do not be afraid to wake me if you need something, Arthur. Especially if it concerns your… physical gratification." He leaned in close, hand brushing the small of Arthur's back, so warm even through the cotton, and murmured, " _Bonne nuit, mon ange_."

Slapping the offending arm away, Arthur stalked off to his room, back straight, head held high, but inside, he was frantically thinking, "He knows, he knows, my God, he knows."

Once he reached the privacy of his room, he pushed the trunk back against the door and flopped face down onto the mussed up bed with a sigh. The unexpected encounter with Francis, the wine, the adrenaline rush from having a gun pointed in one's face, all of that only worsened the little… night problem he had been experiencing for the past hour. There was no help for it if he wanted to get to sleep anytime soon, Arthur thought despairingly, as he began brushing trembling fingertips against the skin of his inner thigh. Any further wallowing in self-pity was soon overruled by more pleasant preoccupations which definitely precluded an open window.

* * *

The crow of a rooster roused Arthur from a dream that he wished was not a dream, and keeping his eyes closed, he desperately clutched at the wisps of false memories, trying to impress them upon his brain before they faded away. But fade away they did, despite his best efforts, and automatically, without any prompting, he found himself daydreaming instead, of golden strands sliding through his fingers, warm skin pressed tight against his bare body, someone's stubbled chin tickling his cheek, a dark velvety voice whispering naughty, dirty, filthy things into his ear, deliciously scandalous activities he may have read about once (or twice) in a plain-covered novel when no one was looking. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Arthur knew that his actual dream probably had very little to do with a certain arrogant French host of his acquaintance, and yet rebellious parts of his body were already responding enthusiastically to the improved version he invented. Bloody hell, he thought, covering his flushed face with his hands. As if he hadn't embarrassed himself in front of Francis enough last night, now his physical form was at the mercy of baser human desires, with little to no input from good and proper British common sense.

With a groan, Arthur rolled out of bed, dressing with some discomfort, finally resorting to a splash of cold water on his face and imagining the middle-aged queen naked. That helped only slightly.

Because of this, he stomped down the stairs with more force than necessary, only to find a complete lack of Francis in the kitchen. Normally, he would find this to be the ideal situation, a world without France, but this left Arthur somehow feeling disappointed and then even angrier than before.

He glanced at the bread in its basket, covered with a towel to keep it warm, the little earthenware dishes of butter and jam, the folded blue and white checked napkins, so unlike the elaborate silver and china Francis would have brought out in any other setting. But it still lacked something, something essential, and scowling determinedly, Arthur stepped out the back door.

* * *

He had just finished clearing his dishes from the table when Francis strode through the back door, holding a basket full of brown eggs.

"Ah, Arthur, _bonjour_!" he exclaimed as he set the basket down and hurried to his side, shooing him away from the dirty dishes. "My apologies for being out, I did not think you'd be awake so early."

"If you must know, I do wake up at this time back home, unlike some other laze-abouts I have had the misfortune of meeting," Arthur said primly.

His jibe was met with silence, and he looked over to see Francis staring at the dining table, a silly grin on his face.

"Why, I do not remember putting this lovely little arrangement on the table. Would you happen to know anything about it, Arthur?" he asked, gently poking at the delicate roses that had been freshly cut and gathered into an empty glass bottle.

"Oh, that?" Arthur mumbled, proud and embarrassed at the same time of his handiwork. "I was just pruning some of the overgrowth in your garden back there. The roses were getting quite leggy and shapeless, yes, terribly so, and I could not bear to let them go to ruin like that. You may, err, thank me later."

"How about if I thank you now, hmm?"

"Your _verbal_ thanks are enough, frog." Edging away, Arthur quickly sat down on a chair, thus protecting his hindquarters from further molestation, and from there, he glared up at Francis. "You realize I was very concerned when you did not show up for breakfast. I had to eat by myself, and I thought perhaps you might have gotten injured or something stupid..." he trailed off by that point, realizing he might have revealed too much.

Francis did not even bother trying to hide his smile of unfeigned delight. "Worrying you is the last thing I want! But I think that could be resolved if we simply slept together, Arthur. Imagine that, waking up safe in my embrace, confident of my whereabouts, perhaps also enjoying the little morning pleasures-"

"Somehow, the way you describe it makes me feel even more distressed," Arthur interrupted, trying his best to look nonchalant and hoping he succeeded. "But do not let me keep you from your work, Francis. If you need me, I shall be taking a walk around the premises. Alone." He paused, then added as an afterthought, "Now, good day to you."

Gathering his cane, Arthur stood up, intending to leave before he got too distracted by how innocently attractive Francis looked in the silvery morning light, with his hair tied high off the back of his neck, the faintest hint of freckles on the skin of his cheeks and nose from yesterday's work in the sun, how pleasant and homey he smelled fresh from his morning egg-gathering duties, how much he was seriously considering the preposterous idea of waking up in those strong, muscular arms.

This was all before Francis laughed and actually threw said arms around Arthur, nearly getting his fine French nose broken by a reflexive elbow to the face.

* * *

Despite his initial reservations, Arthur did enjoy his solitary stroll around the farm. No French man to distract him with wily wiles, only the birds and butterflies, the sun and light breeze, the scent of flowers, the contented sounds of the livestock in the distance. It seemed that so far south, the light looked brighter, the atmosphere clearer, everything brought into crisp detail in his vision.

So much so that when Arthur wandered to the gates by the pasture, he managed to catch sight of Francis heaving a pitchfork full of hay from a large haystack onto a wheelbarrow, for some reason he could not discern. He paused in his stroll, watching as Francis wiped the perspiration off his brow, then continue his work. It was not so much fascinating as bizarre, for the slight smile Francis wore as he toiled away seemed utterly out of character. Perhaps those previous revolutions and appalling military losses finally brought him down from his pedestal, Arthur thought vengefully.

But those mean-spirited thoughts were soon overshadowed by another series of ruminations once Arthur noticed Francis taking off his drenched shirt, hanging it on the handlebar of the barrow as he wheeled the hay with some difficulty into the barn by the chateau. His feet moving of their own accord, Arthur started after him, wanting to keep sight of that lean golden torso, wanting to see more of that expanse of bared skin, the way droplets of sweat rolled down his muscled back, imagining his own fingers clutching at those broad shoulders as the two of them moved together in the throes of lustful passion…

Horrified at how quickly his overactive imagination degenerated, and how even more quickly he was walking despite the growing heat centered below his belly, Arthur stopped with a muttered curse. Francis must be doing this on purpose, trying to seduce him and get him to participate in shameful and lewd acts, sabotaging the reputation of the British Empire just because his own empire had crumbled with the fall of Napoleon. Well, he will not walk into such an obvious trap… no matter how much a certain section of his body apparently wanted him to do so.

Arthur spent the next several minutes pacing back and forth upon the lush green grass, debating with himself, his body tense with expectation and indecision. He refused to consider the simpler solution of throwing himself at Francis and getting the bloody ordeal over with, but at the same time, his needs of a physical nature demanded prompt attention, attention that he could not give, not without compromising everything that made him who he was. It seemed that the best thing he could do was go to his room, alone, and hope his imagination was strong enough to ward off visions of a fully naked, sweaty French farmer ravishing him all through the night.

Still agitated, Arthur tossed his cane over the wooden fence that marked the pasture and heaved himself over, only to have the wood brush against some very sensitive body parts. Hissing from the unintentional contact, Arthur nearly stumbled as he tried to regain his composure and footing at the same time. Luckily, no one saw him falter, and in a burst of inspiration, he took off his coat and folded it over his arm, thus shielding his problem from view. There. The chateau was but a short walk away, and he could make it with no one the wiser.

Then the dog spotted him from where it was watching over the sheep, and it began trotting towards him with a menacing look and even more menacing growl. Arthur rolled his eyes, bemoaning the bad luck that always seemed to follow him whenever he decided to set foot on this godless continent, and started walking very quickly towards the barn.

"Francis? Francis!" he called out, trying to not sound panicked.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm in here, _mon petit_!"

"God damn you, you lazy frog," growled Arthur as he hurried into the barn, looking over his shoulder to make sure the dog wasn't following. "Your dog was…"

"He was what?" Francis asked calmly from where he was seated on a milking stool.

"He was looking at me… threateningly." Arthur closed his open mouth and tried to focus his glare on Francis's overly large and pointed nose, and not on his arms, nor his fingers that were gently tugging at the cow's udders in an easy rhythm, the milk squirting into the pail and slowly filling it.

"I didn't know you knew how to milk a cow," he observed, believing that boring conversation might take his mind off of what else he wanted those hands to be doing.

"Of course I know how. Antonio taught me some years ago." Francis was fortunately not looking at him in his flushed and distressed state, his attention focused on the milking as he rested his forehead against the cow's broad flank.

"I am so sure he did. He probably taught you _many_ things." There was the slightest hint of nastiness in Arthur's tone that Francis did not notice.

"And why not? He is a very knowledgeable farmer, as you should know. Though his climate is different from mine, he has an almost magical touch in making things grow."

"I suppose you could put it like that," Arthur replied coldly.

They said nothing for a few minutes, the silence broken only by the sound of milk thrumming against the side of the pail, the cow's placid chewing, until finally Arthur shook himself out of his trance and cleared his throat. "Francis, I think I shall be going back inside for now."

"Oh? It's getting very warm, I will admit." Francis looked up then, gracing him with a smug and knowing wink. "Try to have fun without me, Arthur."

Cheeks reddening from more than the sun, Arthur gave him a glare that would have soured the milk even without the help of mischievous fairies, before making a hasty but planned strategic retreat to his room.

* * *

In the privacy of his room, Arthur threw his coat and cane onto the overstuffed chair and quickly undid his tie and shirt. With great care, he sat on the bed and leant back on the pillows, settling into their softness with a sigh. Now, to attend to the most pressing matter. He undid the buttons to his trousers, easing them off of his hips slowly, followed by his undergarments. The brush of cool air against his naked groin was like a shock of pure pleasure, and his eyelids fluttered at the sensation. Ever so gently, Arthur began touching himself, with light, delicate strokes over his nipples, down his stomach and in between his thighs, before finally grasping his length with firmer pressure. He hissed again from the contact, trying to keep from groaning too loudly, and was really starting to get into it when someone knocked on his bedroom door.

Yelping in panic, Arthur struggled to put his trousers back on and briefly thanked God that he remembered to put his trunk in front of the door before pleasuring himself.

"What the hell do you want, you sick cretin?" he shouted, stumbling to his feet and inwardly cursing the timing of every French creature that disgraced this good earth by living upon it.

"Arthur dear," Francis asked merrily, voice muffled by the solid oak separating them, "do you like bacon?"

"What?"

"Bacon, do you like it?"

"Yes, yes, of course. …Why on earth are you asking me?" And why now, when he had something very important to be attending to.

"Because I only have enough ingredients to make so much of a quiche," Francis explained, as if speaking to a child with limited mental capabilities.

"Well, I am not eating any of your quiche."

A few seconds of shocked silence. "And why not? What about my quiche offends you?"

"It gives me indigestion. Severe, crippling indigestion, if you recall."

" _Quoi_?" It seems he did recall. "Non, non, I can't believe that it was _my_ cooking that made you sick. It must have been your own overindulgence in alcohol."

"Hah, that is too rich, coming from a degenerate lush like yourself!" Arthur retorted. "Trust me, Francis, it was the quiche. And I am sure that you don't want me, in my delicate health, to be suffering even further. In your own home, no less."

He could barely make out a muttered " _fils de pute_ " and " _je déteste_ " from the other side of the door, and grinned in silent victory.

"Very well. There will be no quiche for you, you uncivilized wretch."

"Thank you so much, my good man," said Arthur grandly. "Now carry on, I am sure you have much to be doing."

He listened carefully as the sound of footsteps receded downstairs and then uttered a high-pitched noise of frustration into a pillow. Damn that frog to hell and back. Just when he was about to achieve much-needed release, _he_ had to interrupt it all and set off another argument. To be sure, that was the tamest argument they have had in recent memory.

With all of his efforts at satisfying himself now thwarted, Arthur decided to instead finish putting his clothes back on before sitting down to the desk and writing a particularly vitriolic entry into his journal about the unreliability of the French to do anything right the first time. If he had entertained any thoughts about sleeping with Francis, which he would not confess to even if he had, which he would like to emphasize he had not, that possibility was now out of the question. Quite.

* * *

Francis, now clothed in a clean shirt, set down his food with an evil scowl and then flounced away to the other side of the table in affronted silence. Given such treatment, Arthur inspected his midday meal with trepidation. Neither the wine nor the chicken and barley vegetable soup seemed overtly poisoned, but the meat pastry looked suspicious. He cut off a corner of the flaky golden crust with a fork and was not surprised to see it unappetizingly stuffed with bacon, the French kind, and only bacon. Glancing up, Arthur saw Francis stabbing away at his own serving of quiche and frowned. This bacon pastry would not be exactly easy to eat, but eat it he must, if he wished to avoid certain poisoning at dinner, or worse, no meals at all.

Not that he had grown fond of his host's cooking or anything of that nature, he assured himself, before setting to his lunch with a sort of fascinated dread.

For some reason, it was not poisoned, and relief chose to manifest itself in an excessively inconvenient manner that he thought had been resolved. Arthur shifted a little in his chair as Francis cleared their table and brought out dessert, which, of course, turned out to be summer strawberries served with crème anglaise. It was one of his favorite desserts, they both knew this, and something in Arthur's chest fluttered in helpless excitement. He was even considering accepting this unspoken apology until he saw Francis molesting a poor strawberry with his tongue, and he snorted disdainfully into his wine glass. Typical French, trying to seduce one with sweets. Oldest trick in the book! And considering Francis, it would mean a very large, very old book. Well, he wouldn't fall for this one, either.

Perhaps egged on by the alcohol in his system, Arthur decided to eat a strawberry with very deliberate sensuality, just to show that pervert he was on to him. Francis' eyebrows rose in surprise, and he redoubled his efforts, much to Arthur's (and probably the remaining strawberries') horror. But his stubborn English pride would not let him back down, and so he picked up another cream-covered strawberry and bit into it slowly, making a meaningful hum of delight.

Now Francis was laughing uncontrollably, choking on his wine. Unable to keep from smiling, Arthur blushed, affecting embarrassment, and while Francis was bent over and coughing up a lung, he flicked a spoonful of cream at him. Francis blinked in astonishment, the cream sliding down his cheek, and then retaliated likewise out of centuries of habit. Not to be outdone, Arthur lunged across the table, trying to smash a strawberry into Francis' eye, while the other tried to tickle him all along his ribs. The chair tipped over and they crashed to the ground in a heap, and Arthur quickly scrambled off Francis before he could notice anything.

"You little-! What did I do to deserve this?" Francis exclaimed as he wiped at his face with a napkin.

"You… you were being French!"

As lame as it was, that seemed logical enough coming from an English person, and with a shrug of his shoulders, Francis looked around at the mess on the floor.

"I hope nothing of value was ruined," Arthur mumbled as he hunched down beside Francis.

"Ah, don't worry, everything will clean up easily. Including you and me," Francis purred, a predatory glint in his eyes, and horrified, Arthur crawled away from those hands reaching for his vital regions.

"We will be having none of that!"

"But eventually you will have to take a bath while you are here!" And his smile made it clear that he intended to be _very_ close by when that happened.

"Not if I can help it," Arthur muttered, clambering to his feet and putting the length of the table between him and Francis. "Don't you have something to be doing? By yourself? Tilling the soil, feeding the chickens?" Preferably without your shirt, he thought, and instantly berated himself for it.

"I do… but… while you are here, I would like to keep you company." Francis turned mournful eyes towards him, and Arthur sighed.

"A very fine sentiment, Francis, but your presence distresses me even more."

"And that is because you will not let me do relaxing things with you!"

"Clearly we don't have the same idea of what is relaxing." Arthur rubbed at his temples, trying to think of a way to get Francis to stop pursuing him before his already battered self-restraint broke down. "Look here, the most relaxing thing would be for you to keep doing what you are doing, as if I am not here at all." Yes, that would actually be quite splendid.

"…If you say so," Francis said doubtfully. "That seems terribly dull to me, but you English men _are_ very dull."

Arthur almost laughed in his face, for what his imagination had come up in this past day was far from dull.

* * *

Much to his disappointment, Francis did not take off his shirt as he set about his chores. Occasionally he sought out Arthur's presence, to be disappointed, before sighing deeply and returning to work. Little did Arthur know that lack of physical contact, even for only two and a half days, was starting to affect Francis's usual cheerfulness. Even if he _did_ realize, he would simply consider it just revenge for the effect Francis had on his own mood. And so the two of them became involved in an elaborate dance of avoidance, trying to ignore the other and doing a spectacularly bad job.

To be perfectly honest, Arthur was surprised that Francis listened to him. And maybe a little disappointed as well. It was discomfiting, acknowledging that the sleepy romance of this pastoral life had brought about in him a decided change in demeanor, a secret yearning for, if not Francis himself, because that would be beyond ridiculous, then something that only this nation had. What that something was, he did not know. But he could not deny the fact that he, the respected and powerful British Empire upon whom the sun never set, was actually admiring a backwards and besotted ruin of a nation whose already unstable mind had almost certainly succumbed to late-stage syphilis.

Not even the best of his authors could have come up with a situation as outrageous as this, Arthur mused as he wandered around the chateau, while its owner slaved outside in the heat of the southern sun.

Every now and then, he would come across something that must have belonged to Francis himself; a wooden plaque of a rooster painted red and green and yellow, a toy soldier from the ancient regime, a rusty rapier mounted over the fireplace, a white porcelain horse brought back from the orient, little assorted knick-knacks that would have had no place in a flawless Paris apartment and yet looked at home here. With a small smile, Arthur set the horse statue down and climbed the stairs up to the bedrooms.

On a whim, he decided to open the door to Francis' room, which was of course unlocked, and dared to peek inside. He was not sure what he had been expecting, whips or manacles or women's underthings or other obscene instruments he could only dream about - here he would like to stress that he did not dream of such instruments and even if he did, it was very occasionally and not every night - but the bedroom contained none of those horrid things. Only the sweat-stained shirt draped over a chair, mussed up sheets, and the little arrangement of roses Arthur had made earlier now set on the bedside table, filling the air with a light perfume.

After looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was about, he crept to the chair and picked up the shirt, feeling the coarse linen crinkle with dried perspiration. And with shame turning his face scarlet, Arthur brought the shirt to his face, taking a deep whiff of that salty, almost tangible musk, imagining the man himself there, naked and glorious like a bronzed Mediterranean god, or demi-god, at least. Just that mental image, however exaggerated due to his current distress, was enough to immediately stoke his banked desire to an ungovernable level. His trembling knees unable to keep his body upright any longer, Arthur plopped down on the bed, the shirt still clenched tightly in his fist. This time not even the thought of the queen nude could calm him down, and grudgingly, he admitted that he needed to go the root of the problem in order to resolve his dilemma. It would mean… asking Francis for help. The thought was revolting, humiliating, utterly unbearable, and yet Arthur could be sure of Francis' assistance, for it would amuse that villain to see proud England at France's mercy. Resolved, though still plenty ashamed, Arthur stood up, putting the shirt carefully back where it was, and made his way, somewhat awkwardly, outside to the farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the french is bad.
> 
> the what?
> 
> i said french is bad.


	5. Chapter 5

He had called Francis' name a few times and received no answer. The henhouse, the stable, the herb garden, the stand of fruit trees, all devoid of Francis. His brow dewed with cold sweat, Arthur ventured out into the pasture, trying to look as if he belonged there in case the dog prowled nearby. By a rare stroke of luck, he checked behind a large haystack and found his host sprawled out on the ground in its shadow, apparently napping. Snorting to himself, Arthur prodded Francis' ribs with the toe of his boot, but there was no response. Not even a grunt or snore. Somewhat worried, Arthur knelt down onto the grass, his eyes scanning over the prone body, lingering a little on the bared chest and toned abdomen, all thanks to a conveniently unbuttoned shirt, before concluding that there was no obvious injury. That meant Francis really was ignoring him, which was good… and yet also not good.

Arthur leaned over to give him a good hard slap, but before his hand could connect, Francis had grabbed his wrists and pulled him down into a deep and passionate kiss that would have knocked out the breath (and possibly front teeth) of a human being. But as they were not humans, it suited them just fine.

Just a moment later, Arthur found himself flat on his back, Francis's lips still brushing against his mouth, and he made a half-hearted protest simply out of habit, because oh, that heavy weight against his groin felt so divine. He wrapped his arms around Francis' shoulders, heedless of the hay getting into his hair and down his shirt collar. At last, Francis was his, at last they could make love, as he wanted, as they both wanted…

"Arthur dear?" Francis breathed into his ear.

"What?" dear Arthur growled venomously, as his personal space was suddenly bereft of Frenchman.

"Do you realize that you have… an erection?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, no longer embarrassed now that he was so very close to release. "Yes, I am aware, you imbecile. Now if you would, kindly help me with it." He tried to pull Francis back onto him, but Francis chuckled and remained where he was, too far away.

"Ah, I do not think we should rush," he murmured, voice warm and smoky and thrilling Arthur's frayed nerves to the brink of madness. "This is a very delicate matter, you see."

"Are you serious? We are on a haystack, on a farm in the middle of nowhere. There is no need, nor time, for delicacy!" Why were they even discussing this, Arthur thought incredulously, surely Francis could see the best solution to Arthur's problem was a prompt and thorough ravishment that only _he_ could provide.

"Yes, but," and now Francis lightly pressed his palm against the bulge clearly outlined in Arthur's dampened trousers, causing him to groan aloud, "I think you have no say in the matter."

"Francis, you git…" Arthur mumbled, unable to continue as the other began to unbutton his coat, smoothing the lapels to the sides with long fingers before working on the waistcoast, and at last, the cravat and shirt. Francis paused then to survey his handiwork, the flushed face and heaving chest, the glass-green eyes flashing so haughtily despite the vulnerable position.

"How lucky I am," he murmured wickedly, "to see the proud British Empire spread out for me like a common slut."

"Very lucky, I should say!" Arthur shot back, but before he could finish, he found himself wonderfully distracted as Francis began peppering his chest and stomach with delicate kisses, alternating with tiny nips and lazy licks to each pink nipple.

"God damn you Francis," Arthur gasped out, trying to press himself against Francis' body, to soothe the shudders that wracked his form. "Just hurry up, you don't have to make it a work of art every time."

"So you are implying it was a work of art the last time?" Because there was a last time despite how much Arthur tried to deny it, although not even Francis could really claim that time as a work of art.

Arthur refrained from slapping him out of dignity, and not because Francis was squeezing a very sensitive part of his body at that exact second and causing him to cry out in ecstasy. Thankfully, Francis let go and began kissing him again, which he hungrily returned as their limbs tangled together within the little cushioned hollow of hay.

"I love…," kiss, "how you think you can tell me what to do, Arthur…," kiss, "and how angry you look when I don't do as you say."

"What does this have anything to do with…," and his words trailed off into incoherent moans as Francis opened the front of his trousers and pressed his tongue against the thin fabric of the undergarment. Then it was a quick tug downwards, just enough to release the flushed and straining cock into the air and against his waiting lips.

"And I love," lick, "how you drive me wild," nip, "and let me drive you wild in return."

Taking in a deep breath, Arthur managed to hiss, "I appreciate the effort, but could you please stop with the maudlin prose, Francis? At the rate you are going, I am going to get a sunburn on my nether regions waiting for you to fuck me."

Instead of apologizing, Francis grinned and then slowed down even more. He kissed the underside from root to tip, then wrapped his lips around the head, using the barest pressure to take in the drop of pre-cum beading there onto his tongue, sipping at it as if it were the finest vintage. Arthur was unable to stop the wail of pleasure from escaping his throat, and grabbing at Francis' hair, he tried to push further into that mouth. But Francis backed away and continued to tease and tickle at Arthur's cock with his lips and tongue, fondling his balls with his fingertips, knowing now he must have been waiting so long for this and wanting to draw it out even more.

It took every bit of his self-control for Arthur to open his eyes, but he forced himself to look at Francis, and his jaw dropped to see his entire length encased fully in that gorgeous mouth and throat. With trembling fingers, he brushed wayward strands of hair out of Francis' face, and nearly choked on his breath when Francis paused and glanced up at him through his lashes with wide blue eyes, so beautiful and natural and so, so genuinely happy to be pleasuring him. He wanted to say something, anything would do, but then Francis did something absolutely incredible with his tongue and whatever he had in mind was promptly forgotten.

Crying out helplessly, Francis' name tumbling from his lips, Arthur threw his head back into the hay as the orgasm rushed through his blood, burning up every nerve along the way, leaving him dazed and panting, sunbursts dancing over his vision. Francis continued drinking him in, sucking and swallowing until he was milked dry. Smirking, he let the softened cock fall from his mouth and began to tuck him back into his trousers.

"W-wait, what are you doing?" Arthur protested drowsily, trying to swat at Francis' hands.

"We are done, are we not?"

"Most certainly not!" he replied with renewed fervor. "Did you not hear, I said I wanted a nice, good fuck, and I would have it now."

"A tumble in the hay, you mean?" Francis looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "I do have a perfectly suitable bed inside."

"Wonderful, we can do it in your bed, _after_ we do it out here."

Francis still seemed to be hesitating, although he was also grinning like a cat that got into the cream, and just when Arthur felt like resorting to 'pitiable begging,' followed by 'persuasive punch to the stomach,' he finally made a show of relenting.

Relieved, Arthur let himself be kissed into oblivion, too far gone to notice his own taste upon Francis' tongue. Shyly, but insistently, he pressed a small tin pulled from his coat pocket into Francis' hand, who paused to look at the label and burst into laughter. Then he got to his knees, still smiling, and Arthur watched him avidly, his hair, now the shade of dark honey gold, curled slightly with sweat, the sun highlighting the curve of his reddened and swollen mouth, the line of his arms, the cut of his muscles. He could not help but lick his lips in anticipation as Francis began working the lubrication onto his half-hard cock, and he dared not blink, trying to memorize the sight of Francis pleasuring himself, his head tossed back, the shirt falling off of his shoulders as he groaned freely in delight. Surely a whine or two must have escaped his throat as he followed the path of those strong fingers moving up and down the stiff and impressive length. God, how he wanted it, all of it, inside of him, filling him up to his limits and then more, until he screamed from the bliss and delicious pain.

Something of his impatience must have made itself known to Francis, who stopped stroking himself and gracefully curled over him, stripping him of his trousers, then lifting his hips easily off the ground and resting them on his lap. As Arthur hooked his legs around his waist, Francis kept up a stream of soft whispered reassurances while he slid his fingers in between the pale buttocks. First one slick finger, then another, wormed their way past the tight ring of muscle, pushing through to massage at Arthur's most sensitive areas with maddening accuracy. And all throughout this, they kissed, biting at each other's lips, breathing in each other's cries like two bodies intertwined into one form. For once, Arthur let his body react as it would, and he writhed and moaned and shuddered without shame, letting the heat collect and pool deep in his loins as Francis continued to stroke his prostate using the best of his already impeccable skill.

"You are enjoying this." It was no question, just an observation.

Arthur did not bother to answer, but simply pushed himself further down onto Francis' fingers, signaling that he was ready. Francis chuckled once more and pulled his fingers out slowly, watching as the stretched opening closed in again, looking forward to widening that little hole next with his cock. Shivering, Arthur spread his legs wider, drawing the lower half of his body up off of the hay so that Francis could have easier access and more importantly, start fucking him now.

"I love you when you are like this, Arthur," Francis murmured, his normally cool voice shaking and unsteady, his eyes even brighter and more liquid than before, "but I have always loved you, have I not?" And before Arthur could blink back the tears from his own eyes, before he could reply with "Oh, Francis, I love you, too, I always have!" or more likely at this point, "Plow my vital regions and sow me with your wild oats at once, you lazy bearded wine freak, or I shall slice off your withered testicles with your own scythe and feed them to the pigs," Francis pushed into him, forever keeping him from saying either thing.

He could not think, not with these sensations coursing through his body, these emotions welling up in his already constricted chest, but he could see Francis' expression, and hear his sweet meaningless French babble interspersed with breathless groans, and feel each hard thrust as it hit home perfectly, as every rock of Francis' hips brought him closer to heaven. He could only scream and gasp out Francis' name as they eased into a rhythm, too overwhelmed to form any coherent English words in retaliation. So Arthur let himself fall, let Francis carry him away from his troubles and quarrels and too-long history, to lose himself inside this single, perfect moment.

But the moment was over too soon, the instant he came again, semen splattering over his chest and their intertwined fingers, and Francis followed him into climax soon after, filling him with white-hot liquid. They collapsed into the hay together, gasping for air, utterly sated and content, except that bits of dried grass were making their way down sticky clothes and into crevices best left alone. Now was the time for languid kisses and gentle caresses, now was the time for sweet silence, and the two of them stretched out in the afternoon sunlight, letting a light breeze dry the sweat off of their aching muscles.

" _Merde_."

"Wot?"

"I forgot to start supper."

"…We can just eat strawberries, yes?"

"That will not give us enough energy for afterwards, if you must know."

"Oh… I see. This is most… regrettable."

"Well, if you do not mind, we can have a late meal tonight," Francis whispered, placing a tender kiss on each of his brows and for once not insulting them. "And I will make it up to you tomorrow, Arthur."

"Yes, yes, very good," he mumbled distractedly. Though the moment was over, never to be experienced again, Arthur supposed he would not mind trying to recreate it with Francis. They may experience something new instead, and though it thrilled and frightened him at the same time, at least now he would not be alone to face the future.

"My, my, can you even walk?" Francis snickered as Arthur wobbled to his feet. "I think I might have been too much for you, but you know, I cannot help being so magnificently endowed."

But Francis was still a git, Arthur thought as he tripped the other headlong into the hay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway, hope you guys enjoyed even though this is so old and silly, I still like it lmao

**Author's Note:**

> [Author's Note: another oldie but goldie! Please enjoy this fic set in the late 1800s in southern France. Here France has gone overboard with the French pet names, so far calling England "cabbage," "little pig" and "my sweet lamb whom I want to hug" or something close to that, my apologies for the rudimentary French.]
> 
> This was from over ten years ago, but still makes me laugh to re-read.


End file.
